by Joyce Harmon
Just then the front door opened, and Julia jumped like she’d been stung. “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed, as Bob entered carrying a bag.
“Who else would it be?” Bob asked her curiously.
“Oh, I know,” she told him. “I’m just flustered. We’ve never had a break-in before.”
Bob nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Queen Anne is having a crime wave.” He set the bag down on the work counter and pulled out his purchases, which turned out to be new door hardware. “I was just out to the hardware place in Livery and Jordan Johnston was there buying new locks too. He said Amy’s place had been broken into.”
“Jordan is Amy’s boyfriend,” Julia told me in an aside.
“You mean the Amy we met at the auction?” I asked, just to be sure.
“That’s the one,” Julia said.
“Oh no!” I exclaimed. “Did they get the Ruba Rombic?”
“Get the what?” Bob asked.
“There were some glasses and vases and such that Amy got at the auction,” I told him. “They’re really valuable, though you’d never know to look at them.”
“Jordan didn’t say,” Bob replied. He was extracting the door hardware from the almost inpenetrable packaging as we talked. Finally freeing his purchase, he hoisted a screwdriver and hunkered down by the front door.
Julia heaved out of her desk chair. “Come on, Cissy,” she said, heading for the kitchen. “Let’s get away from this mess for a while. I want to call Amy.”
We settled into the kitchen with fresh cups of coffee, and Julia dialed and then joined me at the table. The kitchen phone has an extra long cord for just these types of occasions.
“Amy? It’s Julia,” she told the phone. “We just heard about the break-in! Hon, what happened?”
She paused to listen, while I wished she had a speaker phone. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. When? Uh-huh. Where were you? I see…”
I joggled her elbow. “Ask her about the Ruba Rombic.”
“Oh, that was Cissy,” Julia told the phone. “Yeah, she’s right here. She wants to know if they got the Ruba Rombic. Uh-huh. Well, that’s good.”
After a few more minutes of a conversation that I could only hear half of, Julia ended the conversation and turned back to me. “Amy says her place was broken into, but she’s not sure when. She went home from your place and just had time to shower, dress, and do her face before Jordan came to take her out to dinner at Washington House. She just got home this morning. She kind of danced around that; I guess she thinks we’re too old to know that adults often spend the night together these days. So far she hasn’t found anything missing. It’s weird, isn’t it?”
“Weird, I’ll say. I wonder how many more homes will get hit?”
But in the next few days, it became clear that the crime wave was over. No one else reported a break-in, so it was just the two. And nothing seemed to be missing at either location.
Wednesday, Amy came over to my place with Julia. We were going to scout around the attic and storage for more of what Amy called ‘eBuyables’.
The search was fruitful. My old Barbies and the plastic horses I played with as a child made the cut. “How much are they worth?” I asked Amy.
“I can’t really say,” Amy admitted. “Both Barbie and Breyer horses are real specialty fields. Some of them are worth almost nothing, and some are worth a whole heck of a lot. I’d suggest you list them all, start low, and see what happens. Trust me, the collectors will find the valuable ones.”
We found a children’s tea set that must have belonged to Jack’s parents. Amy went into raptures over it. “Akro Agate, in the original box!” she exclaimed. I’d learned by now that the original box always increased the value of an item. Reverently, she opened the box to inspect the contents. “And it’s lemonade and oxblood!”
“That’s good?” I asked, just to be sure.
“That’s great!” she assured me.
I picked up a tiny tea pot, which was opaque pale yellow streaked with dark red. “Hey, this is glass!”
“Sure. Akro Agate was a glass company,” Amy explained. “They started out making marbles, then branched out into flower pots and vases. Back in the 30s, children’s toy dishes were almost all Japanese ceramic, but World War II put an end to imports from Japan for the duration, and Akro Agate started making toy dishes in glass. They’re highly collectible now. And especially in this color – lemonade and oxblood.”
I removed a cup and saucer from their slots and put them together. Amy looked over the set. “You’ve got everything here,” she said. “The complete set. Look over each piece for chips or cracks – if you don’t find anything, you can list this little gem as Mint In Box.”
“Ooh,” Julia squealed, “look at the darling little creamer!” She took it out and mimed pouring cream into the tiny cup.
We played with the tea set for a while and then hauled our finds down to the kitchen. Over coffee, we chatted about local news. “Nothing new on the break-ins?” I asked.
“No,” said Julia with a disgruntled frown. “It sounds like Luther is at a dead end.”
“Same here,” said Amy.
“It’s weird,” I mused. “Why you two? Amy, you don’t live anywhere near here do you? Seems like if it was random, the fellow would just hit a bunch of places in a row.”
“I’m on the other side of the county,” Amy said. “And none of my neighbors reported break-ins.”
“So let’s think about this,” I suggested. “What do you two have in common?”
They pondered the question for a moment. “We both go to the Episcopal Church,” Julia offered.
“We’re friends,” suggested Amy. “Maybe we both pi-…ticked off the same person.”
Julia leaned over and patted her hand. “Hon, I know I’m not young,” she said. “But when younger people censor their language around me, it makes me feel a thousand years old.”
Amy grinned. “Sorry.” After a pause she added, “We’re both in the Tuesday night book club.”
Book clubs didn’t sound like a promising motive to me. Then I suggested, “You both went to the estate auction last weekend.”
Julia and Amy exchanged looks. “So did you,” Julia reminded me. “So did a lot of people.”
But I felt this was a fruitful line of thought. “Yeah, but you two bought a lot. I wonder… maybe there was something in all those boxes that turned out to be valuable.”
“Well, sure,” Amy said. “The Ruba Rombic is valuable and it wasn’t touched.”
“Maybe something else?” I hazarded.
“Anyway,” Julia added, “the person with the real haul from that auction was Rose. If that was the motive for the break-ins, why wasn’t she hit?”
“Hmm. Are we sure she wasn’t?” I asked.
“Well, we’re sure she didn’t report it to the Sheriff’s Department if she was,” said Julia practically. “Otherwise it would be all over the county.”
I drummed my fingers on the table. “That’s if she reported it.”
“Why wouldn’t she report it?” Amy wanted to know.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But hey, why don’t we ask her? If she didn’t have a break-in, then the auction probably wasn’t the motive.”
Both Julia and Amy just looked at me. Undaunted, I pulled out the phone book, which in Queen Anne County is more of a pamphlet than the doorstop of urban environs. I found an R. Jackson listed, with an address on Washington Ave. I pulled the phone down from the wall.
“Really, Cissy?” Julia asked. “What are you going to say?”
“I’m just going to ask if she’s had a break-in.”
They were both still staring at me as if I’d flapped my arms and started flying around the room.
“Look,” I said in exasperation. “I know she’s rude and hard to deal with, but what can she do to me over the phone? And it’s not like if she got angry she could retaliate with some government power of hers; she has none anymore.”
Resolu
tely, I dialed the number. Anticlimactically, a machine answered. “You’ve reached the Jackson residence,” the voice said. “I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a name and number…” and so on.
I’ve given in to having an answering machine, but I still hate talking to other people’s. I cleared my throat and, feeling foolish, said, “Rose? This is Cissy Rayburn? From the Passatonnack Winery?” I was making every sentence sound like a question. I tried to speak more confidently, difficult with my skeptical audience. “I don’t know if you recall, but we met at the auction a few days ago. The reason I’m calling is because several of my friends who were at the auction had their houses broken into. I was wondering if you’d experienced a break-in as well.”
I couldn’t think of a reason why she should confide in me, and lamely finished the message by leaving my phone number.
Then I hung up. Julia said, “Feel better?”
I shrugged. “It was a thought. Which is more than Luther Dawson can say right now.”
And that’s where we left it.
That evening, I showed Jack my on-line auctions. Everything had bids. One of the tablecloths was over $25 and the bedspread was at $17.
Jack was flabbergasted. “That’s the torn bedspread, right?”
“Yep,” I said proudly. “They call them cutters. Crafters want them for the vintage fabric and designs.”
“Well, I’ll be dipped…” Jack didn’t finish the thought.
I told him about the Barbies and the horses and the toy dishes, showing him a similar set that sold for over $100. “And that one isn’t even the lemonade and oxblood!” I pointed out.
Jack shook his head. “Now you’re picking up a whole new vocabulary to baffle me with. I thought the computer stuff was bad, but what with cutters and MIB, it won’t be long before I won’t understand a thing you say.”
“Ooh,” I said. “We’d have to communicate via sign language. Sounds interesting.” I twined my arms around his neck and continued dramatically, “Two people, separated by language and culture, yet brought together by fate and a passion too strong to be denied…”
Jack laughed. “Your talent is wasted on those software manuals,” he told me. “Have you thought about romance writing?”
The discussion then proceeded wordlessly, using the aforementioned sign language.
Rose never called me back, so I figured she must not have had a break-in and the motive for the other two break-ins must be something else.
And there I should have left it. But the next afternoon, I was delivering a few cases of wine to Washington House, our high end B&B. Dave, owner and chef extraordinaire, has made our Cabernet and Chardonnay their house wines. I was pleased to note that the orders from Washington House were becoming larger and more frequent, so the wine was a hit with their knowledgeable clientele. Validation is always satisfying.
On the way to the B&B, I noticed idly that the little house I passed on the way must be Rose Jackson’s; the number on the mailbox looked familiar, and I remembered seeing the street address in the phone book. I automatically filed the information and proceeded on to Washington House, where Dave and Bev were glad to take a break and get my opinion on a new dessert quiche Dave was trying out. Chocolate raspberry? What more could I say? Heaven!
We sat in the bar and schmoozed for a while. According to Dave and Bev (coincidentally last-named Washington, though Washington House is named for that famous fellow who alleged Slept Here all over the eastern seaboard), the business was doing fantastic. Washington House is both a B&B and a restaurant and it seemed that the biggest growth was on the restaurant side. Queen Anne County is off the main tourist track, so the overnight customers were mainly people visiting relatives or getting away from it all. But Queen Anne itself was growing, and much of the new population was from more urban areas. Washington House was the only real Fine Dining within sixty miles, so they were becoming the go-to place when people wanted to dress up and have an elegant evening.
“And it’s only going to get better,” Bev predicted. “Gene Abernathy had dinner here last night – he loves your Chard, by the way – and he says his new development is really going to be upscale.”
“Oh?” This was new to me. “What new development?”
“It will be on the site of the old Beaumont farm,” Dave said. “Gene says no house lot under two acres, and there will be a boathouse and hiking trail. He’ll really be bringing in the high income resident. And they’ll appreciate good food in elegant surroundings.”
“You’ve certainly got that here,” I told him admiringly. I loved having dinner at Washington House, but Jack and I couldn’t afford to go as often as we’d like. A big wine order for Jack or completed writing assignment for me – this was where we celebrated.
I patted the Washington mastiffs, knowing that when I got home Polly would instantly realize that I’d been cheating on her with other dogs. Then refreshed from a social break, I headed out to return home.
But as I drove back down Washington Avenue, I found myself slowing down and then turning in at the Jackson house. Call me nosy, call me interfering, but I just would feel better if I heard Rose tell me outright that she hadn’t experienced a break-in like the other big buyers at the auction.
The driveway led to the back of the house; it appeared that the common entry here was the back door. I saw Rose’s pickup in the driveway, so she must be home. Feeling foolish, but determined to get it over with, I approached the back door. From inside, I heard frantic shrill barking. So Paco was home.
I knocked on the back door, and just as my knuckles struck the wood, I noticed the door latch. It had been broken and wrenched open, just like Julia’s. At my knock, the door swung open a few inches.
“Rose?” I called out. “Rose, it’s Cissy Rayburn.”
A sound like mice skittering in the wall turned out to be tiny dog claws on kitchen vinyl, as Paco charged toward the door. I automatically blocked him from darting out and pushed him gently back into the kitchen with my foot, hoping he wasn’t in a biting mood. He backed up and dashed in a tight circle, whining.
Pushing Paco had brought me into the house. Feeling even more foolish and hoping I wasn’t committing housebreaking, I called again. “Rose?”
There was blood on the floor.
Wait a minute – there was BLOOD on the floor!
For a few seconds, I stood there stupidly, staring at the large stain, now brown and dry. Then, with increasing reluctance, I followed the trail around the kitchen table, where I found Rose, lying face down, with a messy crease on the back of her head, and very very dead.
FOUR
I instinctively backed up until I backed into the kitchen counter. The table was now between me and – her? It? That was a good thing. I took several deep breaths.
Let’s see. Notify the authorities and don’t touch anything. Pull yourself together, Cis, and get over to the phone.
When I found Colonel Obadiah Winslow dead in our vineyard a couple years ago, I had felt duty bound to take a close look to make sure the man was dead. That wasn’t necessary here. There was a smell. One I remembered from the time we came back from vacation and found that the freezer had died in our absence, leaving us with a freezer full of rotten meat.
I quickly turned away from the body and headed over to the sink. To hell with not touching anything, I decided, and grappled with the window latch over the sink. It stuck a bit and my hands were shaking. The broad windowsill was serving double duty as a bookshelf, and I managed to knock several cookbooks into the sink. Finally I got the window flung wide open.
A brisk cool breeze entered and I took a couple fortifying breaths. Turns out that finding bodies is not one of those things that get easier with practice. Shakily, I picked up the books and replaced them on the shelf.
I turned back toward the kitchen and walked to the phone, carefully refraining from looking at the far corner. The wall phone included an answering machine; I saw there was one message. That woul
d be me. I’m no medical expert, but I was willing to bet anything that Rose was already dead when I made that call.
I took down the receiver and dialed 911.
“Queen Anne County emergency services,” intoned the 911 operator.
“This is Cecilia Rayburn,” I announced carefully. “I’m at Rose Jackson’s house on Washington Avenue. I just found her dead on the floor. Her head’s been bashed in.” I remembered the house number, which was now burned permanently into my brainware, and repeated it into the phone.
The operator’s glacial calm wavered. “Ma’am, are you alone in the house? You should leave and get to a safe place; we’ll send someone right over.”
My voice cracked. “Nobody else is here!” I assured the woman. “She’s been dead for days!”
“I’m advising you to leave the house,” she told me. “Don’t touch anything, just leave. Someone will be there soon.”
I hung up and turned from the wall. The operator’s concern had infected me. Surely the murderer (this must be murder, right?) wasn’t still lurking in the house.
I realized that little Paco was standing at my feet staring up at me. That answered that, as far as I was concerned. If someone else was in the house, Paco would be letting me know.
Paco. He was here in the house. Where his owner died at least several days ago. I looked around on the floor and found a tiny water and food bowl combo, both sides bare and dry. The poor little fellow! When I’m careless enough to let the water bowl run dry and too oblivious to catch the animals’ hints about it, both Polly and TS have been known to drink from the toilet bowl. Looking down at Paco, I didn’t think that was an option for him.
I violated the don’t touch anything mandate again by picking up the bowl, taking it to the sink, and filling one side with water. I put the bowl back down on the floor and Paco dived face first into it.
So there was that. Food. Where did Rose keep the dog food? I looked around and noticed a door in the same location as the pantry in our house. I opened the door and sure enough, there were shelves and there was a bag of dry dog food. I filled the other side of the bowl with a portion of dog food, and Paco fell onto it like a starving beast, which is pretty much what he was.
